


Yes, Sir

by Miso



Category: SCTV (Canada TV)
Genre: Body Worship, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Scent Kink, Shower Sex, Sweat, listen this is just the author exploring her dom/sub kink ngl
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-22
Updated: 2017-10-22
Packaged: 2019-01-21 12:00:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12457332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miso/pseuds/Miso
Summary: Earl doesn't have an exercise fetish, he has a Floyd fetish.





	Yes, Sir

**Author's Note:**

> ive had this one sitting around done for a while now!!! i wasnt sure if i was gonna post it bc honestly it felt like a little heavier kink than this fandom needed but if anyone is gonna have a dom/sub relationship its these two. we already have bobby and sammy for the Token Vanilla Friends :P

Floyd doesn't see what I see. I look at him and see a drop-dead gorgeous heartthrob that probably could've made it in the movies on his looks alone. He's got a sharp nose and high cheekbones and a well-defined chin, and his eyes, my god. I never noticed how much hazel eyes change color before I met him. In the light of the news studio, they're golden, the color of sunlight and fire and everything beautiful I've ever seen. When he cries, they turn forest green behind the tears, and it breaks my heart to think his eyes are still beautiful when they're red and puffy from his bottled emotions finally bubbling over. In the darkness of our bedroom, they're a gorgeous shade of dark brown. He says my eyes remind him of coffee or chocolate, and I see what he means in the dark of night. He's the most beautiful being, human or otherwise, I've ever seen, and I wish he could understand why I think that.

It's not like he doesn't take care of himself. Basketball practice and training forms the majority of his workout routine, but in the warmer months sometimes I'll wake up to a note on his pillow (his handwriting is graceful but masculine at the same time, just like he is) that he's gone for a jog and he'll be back soon. Nothing quite like feeling a little tingle in my heart and loins first thing in the morning, really. I always look forward to summer mornings that are warm but not uncomfortably so.

Mornings like today. I'm busying myself with a bowl of cereal and a cup of coffee when he walks in the front door, sweat dripping off of him and his clothes sticking to him in all the right places. His already-tight tank top is nearly transparent with moisture and his shorts leave little to the imagination. Floyd cocks an eyebrow at me when he notices me staring, then smirks a little. "What're you looking at?" he asks, in that husky voice that always revs my engine. I set my breakfast aside on the coffee table and smirk at him, nonverbally telling him that he knows exactly what I'm looking at. He sheds his shirt and smiles back. "You need to get over this weird workout fetish you have," he jokes, kicking off his shoes and socks before approaching me.

I've never told him it's not an exercise fetish I have. It's him. He's intoxicating after he's been working out. I read in an article once that your partner's sweat smelling good to you means your body chemistry is compatible, and if that's true, then we must be fucking made for each other. I purr quietly as he settles beside me, stretching himself out like the deity he is and giving me a leisurely yet commanding glance. "It's not going to suck itself."

I almost feel the blood rush from my head to more important areas and thank God that I'm still in my pajamas. Pitching a tent hurts a lot less in lounge pants than it does in slacks or jeans. All the same, I gather my faculties enough to breathe two words that get him off almost as hard as they get me off.

"Yes, sir."

He licks his lips and makes a quiet humming noise as I nuzzle over his crotch. I feel a hand tangle in my hair and knock my glasses slightly askew. I don't care, not when I have the Rod of the Gods in my face. I move to tug his shorts down with my hands, but he tsk-tsks at me and gives my hair a quick warning pull. _No hands._ In response, I grip the waistband with my teeth and move his shorts down just enough to expose his cock.

A note on it, if I may; it's by far the prettiest dick I've ever seen. I guess it only makes sense that the most gorgeous man on earth would have an equally gorgeous penis. When I first caught a glimpse of it through his jogging shorts, my jaw hit the floor and I prayed he was a shower and not a grower. I was wrong. He's about eight inches when he's hard, as opposed to a more standard-looking six inches flaccid. The head is a beautiful pinkish color with a prominent ridge. Veins snake up the shaft in several spots and he loves it- fucking adores it, really- when I trace them with the tip of my tongue. It's not especially thick, thank god, but it's more than enough for me to get in my mouth. I like to tease him by only taking him down to the scar where he was cut. Having him push my head down more is an incredible feeling.

Maybe I'm weird, but I get off on him treating me like his property, like I'm nothing and my only purpose is to please him. I tease his cock by licking around him like an ice cream cone and I feel my eyelids flutter shut as a salty-bitter-perfect bead of precome hits my tongue. Floyd snarls quietly and rocks his hips into my mouth impatiently. I indulge him by taking him into my mouth as deep as I can.

He doesn't last long, but that doesn't surprise me. I didn't really want him to last long, anyway, lathering my tongue over him and swallowing him as deep as I can, trying to make him come so we can get to something else I love, almost more than this. Almost. He grunts sharply and bucks up into my mouth, and I swallow as much as I can dutifully. He tastes like heaven to me. I have to admit that it's an acquired taste, though. His come and sweat mingle on my taste buds and the primary flavor is like eating pure table salt, but I don't care. It's him, it's Floyd, it's so uniquely and especially masculine that I feel like I could get drunk on getting him off.

He sighs quietly and gently nudges my head off of his dick. "Good boy," he breathes, pressing a kiss to my forehead. "Can I take a shower, now? I'm sweaty and gross." I smile at him and lean into his touch for a moment, before I add the one condition I always add.

"If I can come with you."

He rolls his eyes but smiles fondly. "Fine, fine, you hornball. C'mon."

I love Floyd after a workout, but I really, really love Floyd in the shower after a workout. He still smells like pure, unfiltered man, but it mingles with that spicy soap he likes and the water and suds run down his body in the most beautiful way. It's like they know the contours of his muscles and follow them like migration paths. It's all I can do to keep from falling to my knees and worshipping him all over again as he washes the sweat from his hair. The shampoo accents the muscles of his back and I watch as the bubbles trail from his powerful shoulders down the small of his back to his ass and then down his legs, those long and powerfully-built basketball player's legs. If I was the kind of top he was, I would be begging to ravish him.

But as it is, I'm begging for him to take me. I press against him under the hot spray and kiss his neck. "Again?" he asks, and I nod, my hands trembling and my knees weak. He does things to me, horrible things, things that give him far too much power over me. I suppose I'm lucky he only uses it for consensual domination.

I find myself pushed against the shower wall, my chest on the wet surface, shuddering as he spits into his hand and strokes his cock. "Sorry," he breathes, hovering over my shoulder, "I'm not getting out of the shower for lube. Unless you want me to?"

"No," I whisper back, gasping as the head of his dick prods against my entrance. "I-it's fine... please." A breathless whimper escapes my lungs when the tip of his cock pops into me, followed by a lengthy groan as the rest of his length sinks in. I rest my forehead against the tile of the shower wall, my legs shaking as he grips my hips and bites my shoulder gently.

"You okay?"

"Uh-huh..." My voice is heavy and lazy, almost foreign to my own ears as he kisses the spot he bit before rocking his hips into and out of me slowly and gently. He's killing me, but I don't want to say anything. It's the best kind of agony. Floyd's breath is heavy and hot but still steady on the back of my neck. "Oh my god, Floyd, it's... so big..."

"You..." he shudders as I gasp and tense when he brushes against that one specific spot, "You say that every time... and... it never gets old." I cry out sharply when his dick hits my prostate again, my head dropping as he pushes into me harder and faster. "Fuck, baby," he breathes over my ear, "You feel so good..."

I respond with a wordless yelp as he grinds his hips against my ass for a moment before returning to his rhythm. "Floyd, Floyd, oh my god, oh shit..." I claw at the shower wall, desperate for something to hold on to and finding nothing. "Shit, fuck, harder, please...!"

"Be patient." He smacks my ass and I let out a strangled noise in a mixture of pain and ecstasy. "You want me to lose my balance and break my neck?" I can't answer coherently, but he takes my silence outside of moans and gasps as a no, because he continues with "Didn't think so," before slamming his dick into me harder, faster, deeper.

When we make love, I thank god we live alone, but I still wonder if the neighbors know more than they let on. I know I'm loud anyway, but sometimes? Sometimes, I can't hold myself back. He feels too good and loves me so fucking much, so much I feel my heart ready to burst from it, and I cry out his name. At least today it gets lost in the steamy atmosphere, my cock twitching desperately and dripping precome. He's the first man I've ever had that can make me come without touching my dick at all. I feel the heat start in my balls, then spread through my entire body, and I shout his name, the pet names I have for him, and a series of expletives; "Floyd, oh my god, Floyd, fuck, baby, shit shit shit, I'm coming!" He snarls into my shoulder as every fiber of my body tenses up and trembles as my cock jerks and throbs, spraying the shower wall with ribbons of my come.

"You want me to pull out?" he whispers into my ear, and I respond with a drawn-out "Noooooo!" just in time. He growls, groans, hisses "Earl, shit, doll," into my ear, and I feel his come spill inside me, wet and hot. Fuck. It takes me a moment to be able to move. When I can, I lean back against him, grip his hair, and pull him to me for a kiss as he pulls out and takes a bit of his seed with him. If I wasn't afraid of embarrassing him, I'd beg to try some of the things I've seen in porn, including him fucking me at an angle that would prevent any of his load from leaving me with him. Maybe another time, though.

The water's grown cold. I turn off the tap and shakily step out of the shower, gripping his hand to help him out on unsteady legs. "I love you," I breathe as he wraps us in a towel, my lips barely ghosting over his. He closes the gap between us, a hand cradling my cheek, and we kiss for what feels like an eternity. 

"I love you, too," he answers when we part, eyes half-lidded and pupils still wide with desire. Desire for me. I tremble to see those beautiful eyes, this beautiful man, gazing at me with so much love I wonder how one person can harbor it. He dries us off and takes me to the bedroom, where we collapse into bed, tangled up in each other, kissing and touching and relishing the feeling of skin on overheated skin as a warm summer breeze blows in through the open window.

My favorite weekends are always the ones we spend in bed together. Even the ones where I'm sore by Sunday night.


End file.
